


Breathe

by animal_luver8153



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tragedy, implied - Freeform, major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animal_luver8153/pseuds/animal_luver8153
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft makes a mistake, and in the space of an afternoon it will cost him everything.</p>
<p>>></p>
<p>Tragedy, Mycroft-centric, this is the saddest thing I've ever published so far. Read if you are in need of a angst fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to other fanfictions where Mycroft is portrayed as the semi-all powerful individual who never gets any repercussions for his actions.
> 
> I had to fix that.

Mycroft had no sooner left the conference room that Anthea approached him and discretely slipped a piece of paper into his hand.

RED

The single word was enough to trigger a deep sense of dread. Instead of returning to his office, Mycroft headed to the elevator. Anthea was close behind him, his umbrella tucked underneath her arm. She acted as driver today, Mycroft trusted no other today.

When they arrived at Baker Street they were greeted with debris of a domestic fallout on the sidewalk. Jumpers, bedsheets, bath towels, broken mugs, and the rest of what was obviously John’s wardrobe were strewn about the side walk. Mycroft neatly sidestepped a pair of boxers as he exited the car.

“You might want to park the car elsewhere, Anthea. It doesn’t seem like he’s done quite yet.”

Mycroft barely had time to finish his sentence when a wooden plank flew from an open window and hit the hood of the car. 

“Yes sir,” Anthea peeled away from the curb just in time to dodge another piece of wood launched from the window, this piece still had faded red upholstery attached to it. 

Mycroft sighed and worked his way past the evidence of his younger brother’s rampage and up the steps to the flat. A quick observation told him that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there and hadn’t been for two days, visiting her sister then. From the state of the knocker on the front door, John was still at work and wouldn’t be back for at least two more hours. The sounds of destruction didn’t stop as he ascended the stairs. By the time he stepped inside the open door, John’s chair was well and truly annihilated. 

“Really brother? Aren’t you a little old for tantrums?” Mycroft addressed his younger brother, who was by the window throwing out the last scrap of chair out the window.

Sherlock whirled around, and Mycroft knew he had made a mistake. His baby brother was manic. Frail frame draped in that hideous bathrobe and old threadbare pajama bottoms. Mycroft could see the blood vessels in his Sherlock’s eyes. It was the effects of a cocaine crash.

“OH! LOOOOOook! Big brother Mycroft! I’m so GLAD you’re here!” Sherlock spoke with a high mocking voice unlike anything his older brother had ever heard from him. 

“What do you think you’re doing brother?” Mycroft deadpanned, letting his brother take the lead. 

“Just clearing out TRASH,” Sherlock emphasized the word with enough venom to put down an elephant. In one fluid motion Sherlock picked up John’s laptop and tossed it to the window, it hit the edge of the pane and spun on its way to the concrete below. Mycroft could hear the computer shatter as it hit the pavement. 

“Explain yourself,” Mycroft continued before Sherlock could throw something else.

“Explain yourself?” Sherlock pretended to be dumbfounded, “Explain MYSELF? Why don’t you explain YOURSELF Mycroft? Did you think I was too STUPID to find out?”

Sherlock started stalking closer, “What did you agree on Mycroft? A thousand pounds a kiss? Five thousand for cuddling? TWENTY THOUSAND FOR MY VIRGINITY!?!”

The cheque. Sherlock found the cheque. “Sherlock I can expl-”

Pain cracked across Mycroft’s face, Sherlock had used his violin bow to strike at his brother. The bow and string weren’t enough to cause much damage, but it did stun him just enough for Sherlock to grab his umbrella. Sherlock got another strike in with his brother’s prized possession, this time in the abdomen, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Mycroft tried to get his air back in his lungs. He NEEDED to tell Sherlock- he had to-  
“Was it all to teach me a LESSON?” Another blow sent Mycroft to the floor, “Proof that no one could ACTUALLY LOVE ME?” A break in at least three ribs, “THAT CARING ISN’T AN ADVANTAGE!?!”

Breathe- he needed to breathe-

Gravity was turning on him, the floor disappeared, the stairs rushed up to replace it. Sharp edges slammed into his spine and with everything he could hear something shatter. It took a long time for him to realize that he had hit the bottom of the stairs. Pain was uniform, a throb around his whole body rather than localized. He still couldn’t breathe... he couldn’t tell Sherlock…

Reality blinked in and out. One minute he was staring at a blurry cobweb high up on the ceiling, the next he was looking at a blurry vision of Anthea, her phone pressed to her ear for once. He could hear a nearby door slam. Saw a glimpse of yellow hair going up the stairs. HE COULDN”T BREATHE.

Two gunshots were the last thing he heard before everything went dark.

>>>>>>

Anthea effortlessly pushed the wheelchair through the grass between tombstones. London rain had given them a short reprieve, leaving the ground cold and miserable, just a few degrees away from freezing. The polished black stone stood out amidst the crumbling grey, Sherlock would have liked it that way. Roses were placed across the bottom, the edges of the petals curling. Mrs. Hudson had been there yesterday. There was trace amounts of bright yellow pollen on the stone as well, lilies, likely the sign of The Woman. Mycroft didn’t bring anything. Sherlock never believed in life after death, hadn’t since Redbeard passed. Bringing something would be redundant.

The plots around the grave had been bought, allowing Sherlock the space he probably would have wanted. Mycroft had done the honorable thing and given John’s body to his next of kin. The last he heard of it was that he had been cremated, what his sister had done with the ashes was anyone’s guess. Burying them together would be the ultimate cruelty. 

It was an open and shut case, drugged up sociopath cripples his own brother before killing his boyfriend and committing suicide. Lestrade’s last case was hardly challenging. No arrests to be made, no killer on the loose. Mycroft idly wondered if the sight of the inside of a jail cell would make him feel any better. If it weren’t for the constant pain in his lungs, he doubts that he would feel anything at all. A punctured lung with his history of smoking made sure he would never be able to breathe properly again. 

“Anthea,” he rasped, “Please… a moment.”

The assistant nodded and briskly walked off, likely to lean against a tree while playing on her phone. There was a small button on the side of his chair that would summon her back when once he was done. Once he finished telling him what he needed to. It would hurt, and would take a while, but if he didn’t say it now it would never be said.

“Sherlock…I need to tell you…even if you’re not… anywhere…anymore. I… need you to know… I never meant this…any of this… I tried… it was a present… I saw John…knew that the two…of you… were together… he loved you so much…when you first met…he didn’t want… money to spy…kidnapped him again….when I knew… he was so angry…so protective of you…I slipped the cheque…into his pocket…twenty thousand is just… just enough… for a wedding Sherlock…a wedding…you hated weddings… you hated…”

Sherlock hated him. Hated him for all those years spent being as distant as possible. Hated him for spying on him. Hated every condescending sneer. He hated him until he hated himself. 

Sherlock died thinking that no one ever loved him. He died thinking John was nothing more than a paid lackey. 

John was the greatest casualty in this war. John was shot by the man he loved with his own gun. John lived long enough to see the man he loved kill himself. John bled out next to his love’s corpse and never knew why.

And for what? Because Mycroft wanted to be clever. Mycroft wanted to rub it in. Mycroft wanted to prove he knew everything about everyone. Sherlock and John paid the price for it.

Mycroft hadn’t nearly paid enough for their deaths, he likely never would. 

The skies had darkened, and the short reprieve from the rain was over. Anthea returned without being called, like she often did, and started wheeling Mycroft back to the car. A downpour erupted above them, soaking them down to the bone. Mycroft no longer kept an umbrella on hand.


End file.
